Author's Note: Thanks for sticking around!
Brienne opens the door to their apartment, shouldering Jaime's duffel bag from the hospital stay. At last he was released, and Brienne can't say just how glad she is.
She hates hospitals, ever since a child. While she spent a good share there due to being more than a wild child that broke more than one bone, it is a place she links to something much more horrific than her broken bones, sprained ankles, scraped knees, gashes, cuts, and bruises:
That is where her mother passed away, though she can't remember her face.
That is where her little sisters passed away, and that even though they were barely in this world before being ripped out of it again.
That is where Galladon was brought, his young, lean body, as though it was made of wax, cold and wet from the water they got him from, but not in time.
And that is where she almost lost Jaime, too.
Brienne tenses her shoulders to keep the cold sensation out of her muscles as she walks on to the bedroom to place the duffel bag on the bed.
"That's a lot of flowers," she can hear Jaime say from the living room.
Jaime spoke little these past few days, and Brienne hence talked little, too.
Because she doesn't want to end up saying the wrong things.
Brienne has never been good with words. The only thing she is good at is taking action.
But she doesn't want to push him.
She doesn't know what is going on inside of him.
At some point Brienne hates herself for being that bad at reading people. Because maybe if she could read him, she could help better, but Brienne doesn't know what lies beyond Jaime's eyes, at least these days. It's as though there suddenly was a wall, and she is unable to climb it.
Brienne walks back into the living room, "Yes. I told them to send them here instead of the hospital. I already guessed the department and the Lannister clan would send… a lot. And I feared it'd get crowded in the hospital room."
It has been a bit of an in-and-out, especially in the beginning. Of course Jaime's family was at the hospital within a few hours' time. Tyrion was close to tears, though he tried to hide it, until they knew for certain that Jaime would pull through. Tywin was his old usual cold self, but Brienne saw the edge of worry for his son, and not just his Empire, at least she hopes she read correctly. Cersei came in only the next day, because she had been abroad. When it dawned on her that Jaime lost his hand, she was very quick about getting away from the hospital, now out of shame or simple incapability of dealing with the situation. Not that Brienne was sad about that. Cersei is the last thing Jaime needs at this point. And the last thing she needs, too. Tyrion did his best to support them, though Jaime was rather distant to his younger brother, too, which is a novelty, really, because he and Tyrion were always very close.
But then again, the doctor said that this was to be expected and that this is part of the process Jaime is going through.
And Tyrion is the last one to ever hold it against him, so all know.
"I bet that monstrosity over there is from my Father," Jaime huffs, nodding at a giant flower bouquet right beneath the window. "Did it arrive with a parade, I wonder?"
"None that I saw," Brienne replies numbly.
"Well, maybe that's over now that the golden boy is no longer that golden," Jaime snorts bitterly. "I guess that Cersei rose in his ranking significantly."
"I don't think so," Brienne replies in a small voice. "Can I… can I get you anything?"
"Only if you have a new hand by any chance," Jaime snorts.
Brienne chews on her lower lip, "Alright."
"Brienne, I… I'm sorry," Jaime grimaces. He doesn't want to snap at her, he really doesn't. But whenever he opens his mouth, sarcasm pools from his tongue like acid.
"It's as I said, it's alright," Brienne argues. "I understand."
"Do you? Because I don't," Jaime exhales.
Brienne makes a face. No, she doesn't really understand what it must be like for him right now, she just understands that he feels like punching and kicking, and Brienne knows that she can take it.
She is strong.
She has dealt with worse before.
Far worse.
"Tyrion asked if it'd be alright to come by some time," Brienne goes on.
"He asks? That surely means the situation is bad," Jaime huffs. "Normally, he just pops up on our doorsteps and drinks up our wine deposits… but, oh. Almost forgot, none of this is normal."
No, it's abnormal, like this hand, or no, pardon, stump is.
"Your colleagues have called, too," Brienne goes on.
"Well, they are hardly my colleagues anymore, that is unless they hire cripples from now on," Jaime huffs.
"They are still your colleagues. They don't stop to care about you only because of an injury," Brienne argues in a faint voice.
"You might be right. Then maybe we should go with former colleagues. That sounds valid enough," Jaime shrugs.
"Is there something I can do for you?" Brienne asks. "I mean, it's… I don't know. I… I'm at a loss."
"Welcome to my world," Jaime snorts, but then offers a sympathetic, apologetic smile, "But don't mind me. I'm just… in a foul mood. I bet that will pass… in the next couple of years, that is unless I suffer from the kind of amnesia that can make you forget that you miss a hand."
Brienne just looks at him and says nothing.
And Jaime hates himself that he just ended up delivering a jab to her that was intended for himself.
He really should talk less, or else he will only end up pouring more acid over her.
"I think I need a shower. I stink of… hospital and dead people," Jaime grunts, though he honestly fears that this is actually his smell after all.
Because he feels like a corpse, a walking corpse with just one hand.
"Do you need…?" Brienne asks.
"I think I will manage on my own," Jaime says in a flat voice. "I will likely cry out like a madman in case something is up."
"Just make sure that you keep the wound dry, the doctor said…," Brienne means to say, but Jaime holds up his good hand jerkily. "I know what the doctor said. This should actually be no bother. I had broken arms before, and was supposed to keep the cast dry. It's not much different, is it? Or well, it is, but… the movements are almost the same."
He trots off into the bathroom. Brienne sits down on the couch, her entire body as tight as a longbow's string pulled back until it doesn't give way anymore. She pricks her ears, hears Jaime undress, hears him curse as he does, hears him growl, kick the clothes through the bathroom, then play around with the faucets for much longer than he used to, and then water running and him stepping in. Brienne forces the breath out of her lungs slowly, leaning her head back, closing her eyes.
No tears.
He is here, he lives. That's all that matters.
But no tears.
Tears are for the weak.
And she is strong.
He is strong.
They are stronger than this.
Jaime lets out a sigh once he steps out of the bathroom. Showering itself wouldn't have been so difficult, had he been smart enough to open the shampoo bottle before it was all slippery, which meant a wrestle with the shampoo, almost like the infamous bar of soap plopping out of people's hands in the shower in any third degree comedy. And undressing proves to be much easier than dressing up, especially if your body is still damp and the clothes stick to your skin as though you were wearing tight tights. Maybe he will walk around in sweatpants for the rest of his days, though Jaime reckons that it won't bother much.
His life is almost over.
His right hand is gone, by the Gods.
He was this hand, and now he is… just nothing.
At least that is what it feels like, as though he was a blank slate, an empty space, as though they poured him out as he had bled out in the street.
Jaime exits the bathroom to see Brienne hunched over on the couch, apparently having fallen asleep. Jaime rounds the couch to sit down next to her, as carefully as he can not to rouse her.
That's right.
He almost forgot.
She is still here, in that blank slate, the only filler.
The only thing that matters.
Even though Jaime reckons that it won't be for her best, because he knows that he won't change his attitude any time soon, because he has no control over this.
That is what the ambush taught him: That they have no control over anything. The world just starts to laugh at your face and takes your hand, and there is nothing you can do but to endure the pain, breathe through the agony, and likely sneer back at the world and show it the finger.
Jaime looks at Brienne again. She still looks like crap, not that he looks any better. The bruises are still healing, now varying shades of green, violet, and yellow, the cut on her cheek and on her lip are black now, almost like moles. There are dark rings under her eyes, after she's been flying back and forth between the apartment and the hospital to be there for him. She probably slept about as many hours as he did during his first night there.
Brienne is really too good for him.
Too good to get lost in a blank space.
Out of reflex, Jaime wants to brush the few loose strands out of Brienne's face, only to realise that there is no hand to do it with, and the other still to clumsy that he fears he'd poke one of her beautiful blue eyes out.
So Jaime keeps his hand in his lap and tries to forget about his ghost hand, slides down in his seat next to her, and drifts off to dreamless sleep, face to her, touching her only with his mind.